


Sleep

by idelthoughts



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2677268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll sleep when the work is done, and not before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

Thirty-nine hours awake and counting.

“Haul away!”

Bush was losing his voice—it was a fading rumble compared to the usual thunder, a bellow which could normally shake the deck with its power.

The creak of rigging and tackle, the groans of the men and the shifting mass of the ship, Bush’s rough bark, all of it was a symphony of misery as they scrambled to replace _Hotspur_ ’s lost mast before the Pacific storms smashed at her again.

The mast rose unevenly as the men heaved again, listing with a sickening sway to port. If it drifted any further, it was going to topple overboard, and possibly take the foremast with it, Hornblower realized. Midshipman Harvey, who was in charge of the port crew hauling the ropes to stabilize the great mast as it rose to find its resting place, was pale and bleary and near dead on his feet. He was staring at the men on the rope with no recognition in his eyes of the coming danger.

Hornblower cupped his hands and shouted from the quarterdeck.

“Hold, hold! Firm up to port! Firm up, God damn you!”

Harvey jumped at the order, shaking himself awake.

“Firm up port side!” he shouted. His voice cracked, sailing into a high register before dropping back.

The mast teetered as the port side crew strained and pulled, but the balance had shifted, and the mast sagged to starboard a little further. Hornblower threw his hat to the deck and jumped down the gangway. He raced to the crew amidships and threw himself on the rope, heaving with the men. Harvey, seeing his captain hauling on the rope like a common sailor, leapt in and grabbed hold as well.

“Pull!” Hornblower cried, and leaned back with all his weight, pressing back against Galbraith, the sail master’s mate, who worked behind him, his giant arm muscles bulging.

Inch by inch, the mast straightened back to course, and an eternity later it dropped into place.

The men erupted in ragged cheers. Bush, glazed in sweat, pulled his hat from his head and whooped, grinning into the sky at the upright mast. He had a wild look about him, half crazed with fatigue and tension.

Hornblower dropped his hold on the rope, his hands burning from the rough fibre. Beside him, Harvey was gulping in horror, looking between Hornblower and the mast and the rope still clutched in his hands, knowing that his inattention had nearly been the ruin of the ship.

Thirty-nine hours awake, and they were all ready to drop. Hornblower would pity the boy if he could, but life at sea killed men who made stupid mistakes, as well as their comrades and crew. Harvey’s inattention could have sunk them, and left them floating helpless and dismasted.

“We will discuss this later, Mr. Harvey,” Hornblower said to him. He did not deign to look directly at him.

Harvey nodded jerkily, and even from the periphery of his vision Hornblower could see there were tears in his eyes. He sucked in his stomach and stood to proper attention, making a valiant effort at maintaining his dignity in front of his captain.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower sighed. He did pity the boy in his misery, and with it came the unpleasant twist of sentiment. He gently patted Harvey on the shoulder.

“Steady now, concentrate on your duty. Not much longer.”

Harvey looked up at him, pathetically grateful, and nodded. He scampered off toward Bush, to receive orders for the next mammoth task of re-rigging the ship.

Thirty-nine hours awake and he was going soft, coddling the boy when he should be properly punished for his inattention. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and grimaced, trying to clear the faint blur that refused to go.

They had six hours of work left, if all went well, and four hours of daylight in which to do it.

He’d sleep when he was dead, no doubt, and it wasn’t his time yet.

***

 

Hornblower stared at his desk, certain he’d come into his cabin for some reason, but fatigue was playing tricks with his memory, and he could not think what it was. He reviewed his last moments on deck—the rigging was settling into place, and _Hotspur_ was seaworthy again; the men were being sent for their meals and rest in shifts as best they could, as they made the most of calm weather. He had come down below for—

A knock at the door startled him. He shook his head to clear it and shuffled papers to make it look as though he’d been working before acknowledging the knock with a gruff, “Enter.”

Bush came in and closed the door behind him.

“We’re under way, sir. The new mast is holding steady, and she’s taking the strain well enough.”

“Well done, Mr. Bush.”

Bush blinked at him, and then nodded.

“Aye sir, thank you.”

Bush’s face had a grey cast to it, and Hornblower wondered when Bush had last slept. He’d been holding the watch when Hornblower came on deck from his own rest, just before the storm had struck.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, William?”

“There are things that need tending to yet. The work parties need reorganization—we lost ten men in the storm, washed overboard when the rigging went. I need to assign new hands to positions.”

Hornblower frowned, irritated to have Bush refuse his charity.

“Mr. Bush, it can wait an hour or so.”

Bush stood there, mulishly silent, not directly refusing but not yielding to Hornblower’s heavily weighted suggestion.

He pressed his mouth in a thin line, and pointed to the chair by the desk.

“Sit down, please.”

Bush looked at the chair like it was the gallows, but eased himself into it nonetheless. Hornblower picked up a half-finished report from his desk and drew out his ink well and pen.  Bush cleared his throat.

“Captain—“

“Not now, Mr. Bush.”

Hornblower dipped the pen, blotted it, and began to scratch words. He wasn’t entirely sure if they were sensible, but he focused on them nonetheless, ignoring Bush, who sat in confused silence, and then boredom, waiting to be called upon.

And then, slowly, Bush’s head started to bob. His chin sank to his chest, but he made a valiant effort to rally; he shifted in his seat and tapped one foot to keep himself alert. But the rhythm slowed and stopped, and then Bush’s head drooped again.

Shortly after that, he lost the fight. Upright in his seat, head sagging to one side, Bush slept.

Hornblower dropped his pen to the desk and pushed aside the damned paperwork, glad to be done with the ruse before he himself started to doze off. It had been a swift conclusion; he knew Bush had been less than a minute from falling asleep where he stood.

He permitted himself a self-indulgent moment to watch Bush, listing slightly in the chair like a water-logged hulk. His weather-beaten face was gaunt from their long ordeal. Even in repose, deep lines from squinting into the sun and wind, from scowling and berating crew and young midshipmen alike, told the history of his years at sea. Hornblower wondered what it would have been like to see him a young man, soft and green, like an unfinished sculpture waiting for life to mould him into proper shape. Familiar, tender fondness coloured his thoughts.

Bush’s mouth parted as his jaw slackened, and he snored softly.

With irritation, Hornblower brushed aside his wandering fancies. There was no place for such mooning about aboard ship, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Time to rally and focus on the matter at hand. He took up his coat and hat and put them on, leaving the cabin quietly and heading up to deck to confer with the ships master on crew rotations. What he wouldn’t give for a steaming cup of coffee to carry him through—but his stash of the precious commodity was long gone, and a resupply was a distant dream.

One foot in front of the other, one task at a time. He was weary, but Bush had carried the heavier load. Let him rest, and then later Hornblower would be able to sleep. While the ship was still in disarray, he could not rest anyway.

The bells on deck rang out, announcing the time. Forty-five hours and counting.

**Author's Note:**

> All sailing references were cheerfully made up, with liberal misuse of wikipedia.


End file.
